


The Caged Bird Sings

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Castiel, Asexual Character, Bisexual Dean, Bisexual Male Character, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 16:37:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4312473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well, Chuck…”</p><p>“Um, Dr. Shurley will do just fine—”</p><p>“…to be honest, I’m feeling a little perturbed.”</p><p>Chuck’s eyes blossomed like he’d just struck gold. “Alright,” he said, eagerly scribbling something down in his spiral before echoing the word, “perturbed, any idea why?”</p><p>“Well, I mean, it makes sense, anyone in my situation would be. I sent a kid to the ICU and now I’m sitting across from a guy with more facial hair than a French girl.”</p><p>Or the one where Dean is sent to anger management therapy and meets Castiel, a blue-eyed wonder who he slowly comes to learn the truth about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Caged Bird Sings

“And how does that make you feel?”

Dean’s head slumped forward to look daggers at Dr. Shurley. He can’t count on two hands how many times he’s been asked the question. He _can,_ however, count on one hand how many times he’s been in a physical altercation with another student. If he was attending anger management because Fergus MacLeod couldn’t go one second without laying a hand on his baby brother then so be it. Sammy was safe, that’s all that mattered.

Besides, it gave him great pleasure that Dr. Shurley was an easy target for humiliation. Almost every session started with a _bang_ —literally, the guy was the biggest klutz. On a good day, he dropped half a dozen case files. And on a bad day, well, let’s just say Dean hoped he had insurance on the place.

His incompetence didn’t help the fact that he wasn’t much older than Dean’s sixteen. Plus, the guy wasn’t even a certified doctor. People just refer to him as the school psychologist because no one else wanted to take the job.

Dean clasped his hands together. “Well, Chuck…”

“Um, Dr. Shurley will do just fine—”

“…to be honest, I’m feeling a little perturbed.”

Chuck’s eyes blossomed like he’d just struck gold. “Alright,” he said, eagerly scribbling something down in his spiral before echoing the word, “ _perturbed,_ any idea why?”

“Well, I mean, it makes sense, anyone in my situation would be. I sent a kid to the ICU and now I’m sitting across from a guy with more facial hair than a French girl.”

Chuck removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose with a heavy sigh. “Dean, this is serious. You’re lucky his parents aren’t pressing charges.”

“Oh yeah, I’m damn lucky,” Dean retaliated sharply, “my brother was a heartbeat away from being hospitalized—or worse—and you’re keeping me here for saving his life? How does that work again, _doc_?” The pseudo psychologist mumbled something about how no one was keeping Dean anywhere before a long, painful silence stretched between them. It took another before Dean, more collected, asked, “Do you have kids, Chuck?”

The man shook his head, saying, “No, it’s just me.”

“Then you have no right to read me.”

Chuck laughed good-naturedly, “With all due respect, Dean, you’re not—”

“ _Don’t,_ ” he hissed, tears stinging his eyes, “don’t you _dare_ say that I’m not that kid’s parent. I’ve been more of a father _and_ a mother to him than my folks ever could have been. I’m more qualified to be his parent than you or any white collar asshole in the tristate area.”

Dean hadn’t realized he lent over his desk and fisted Chuck’s tie in his hand until the receptionist walked in, wearing the same expression of everyone and their siblings when Dean beat the living shit out of MacLeod. No wonder so many kids at Lawrence High were victimized. Too many people like her existed, people who would rather stand in the shadows than be the light that guides the persecuted away from the persecution.

“Uh, Mr. Shurley, your next patient is in the hallway…”

Chuck gulped, flattening his clip-on with his hands when Dean released his firm grip there. “Send them in,” he croaked, assembling a new folder. “Well, I think we made progress—” But Dean didn’t hear him because he wasted no time storming out of his office.

In the hallway, he locked eyes with the too-blue ones of stranger’s. Dean couldn’t be sure through the blur of his tears, but he thought he detected a note of sympathy in his aslant expression, which was the last thing he needed, given he nearly choked a man with his own tie. All at once, he felt sick. Dean didn’t know much about psychology, but the best medication for him would be getting the hell out of Dodge.

***

Dean came in the following week, only to be informed by the receptionist white-knuckling her Bible that Dr. Shurley was running behind schedule. Granted he was already in hot water with the principal after his confrontation with him _and_ the head football coach for unseating his star player before the championships, he very quietly took a seat in the waiting room. There was no need to make the situation worse than it already was.

In a desperate attempt to entertain himself, he drummed the intro to Metallica’s “Some Kind of Monster” on his thighs. To his surprise, he heard the faint hum of the first verse after a few beats and Dean turned his head, meeting a familiar pair of blue eyes.

A smile found Dean’s lips as he watched the boy’s cheeks turn an endearing shade of red. “What’re you in for?” he asked, resting his hands in the small crevice between his legs.

“You make it sound like we’re in jail,” Blue Eyes stated matter-of-factly.

“You raise a good point, the pen has better food.”

Blue Eyes dropped his head, chuckling, “Do I want to know how you know that?”

“It’s probably best if you didn’t,” Dean admitted with a wink, lending out his hand. “Dean.” Blue Eyes scooted closer to clasp their fingers, offering a name caused Dean’s eyes to widen in surprise. “That’s a mouthful; I think I’ll call you Cas.”

Cas smiled at that, and then said, “I come here for myself.”

“What? You mean like self-surrender?” he asked.

“Do you always equate things to prison?”

“Only when I’m in school.”

Cas huffed a quiet laugh before shrugging lamely. “I guess you could call it that. Sometimes it’s just nice to talk to someone outside yourself, you know?”

Dean nodded. He and Sam used to tell each other everything before Dad passed away. They’re still close in the sense; Dean would do anything for his brother, including late-night sleepovers in his room when the nightmares set camp in his dreams, but they haven’t had a conversation in years. “Yeah, I split a guy’s head open.”

Cas gaped at Dean like he was staring at the otherworldly version of him before he choked on his own laughter, “ _Oh my God_.” Then a moment later: “Sorry, that’s not funny…”

“It’s a little funny,” Dean confessed, throwing a grin over his shoulder for good measure. Cas shook his head, unwilling to embrace the insanity of the situation.

“We’re horrible people.”

“Good thing we’re in therapy then.”

Cas wore a big gummy smile he tried to hide in the cotton of his t-shirt and from then on, Dean couldn’t be bothered with missing another appointment.

***

Castiel Novak was a strange little dude. Dean’s gotten to know the guy over the last couple weeks better than most people got to know someone in a couple years.

He likes bees. A good portion of his childhood was devoted to gardening. He planted everything from dandelions to lilies, tulips, and chrysanthemums; he’s even nursed a ghost orchid, which are apparently incredibly hard to grow anywhere other than the tropical forests of Cuba. He was barely double digits the first time he went honey collecting—an experience that landed him in the ER after his body was unresponsive to antihistamines. (“To this day, I haven’t had a single runny nose.”)

When he says he’s going to be a beekeeper when he grows up Dean is hardly surprised.

He loves animals. His favorite is guinea pigs, though he’s never owned one. He spends his weekends at local animal shelters, where he’s met most of his friends, including his dorky little brother. Cas has siblings too, younger and older. Naturally, they share exotic names. Cas is the middle child between Ion and Hester, the two oldest, and Inias and Samandrial, the two youngest. His parents are disciplinarians. He’s a non-conformist.

He’s up to his knees in homework. Advanced Placement has, to quote him, “sucked the marrow out of his social life”. He would kill for a cheeseburger. His favorite restaurant is Plucky Pennywhistle’s in spite of the fact that he’s too big for the indoor twisty tube slide. The park across from his house has a hardly functional playground, but Cas claims it’s the perfect place for stargazing. He’ll head out of his house at dusk with blankets and pillows and if he’s lucky he’ll fall asleep under the night sky.

Castiel Novak is a strange little dude, and Dean’s fairly certain he’s in love with him.

That’s why he’s currently panicking. Cas hasn’t shown up in three appointments. Dean will spend half of his sessions with Chuck trying to convince him into telling him where Cas is, even though he stands a chance at little avail due to the patient confidentiality agreement.

Dean learns then that he’s in love with Cas and that he hates school psychologists.

Nothing prepares him for the day that Cas does show up. He’s sitting in the waiting room, except he’s not humming the best of mullet rock or going on about his quirky life, and instead of his usual smile he’s sporting a shiner that’s blue and purple and covers the circumference of his eye. It takes Dean everything not to hound him with a thousand questions like _“What happened?”_ and _“Whose body am I going to have to hide from the Feds?”_

For the first time in his life, Dean evaluates the situation, and comes to the conclusion that he’ll be a good friend and let Cas tell him when he’s ready. That way, come time he wants to talk, whether it’s to a paid listener or to one of his well-acquainted peers, his explanation will be honest and thorough.

Because Dean really wants to know who the lucky son of a bitch is that gets to meet his fist.

The moment happens sooner than later. Dean decides not to sit with him, not because _he_ felt uncomfortable, but because he didn’t want to make Cas feel uncomfortable. Between his ungainly brother’s tendency to fall into or onto large, heavy objects, and both his mother and father’s premature deaths, Dean’s entitled to say that he’s familiar with pain.

But Cas catches him just as he’s deliberating his actions. “I, uh, I might have fibbed when I told you why I come here,” he says to his friend in a voice barely classified above a whisper.

Dean sits in his usual spot, only now he’s hanging on his every word. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t come here for me.” Cas laughs brokenly and Dean’s stomach flips at the sound of it. He doesn’t say anything so Cas continues, “My parents arrange my appointments. They said I need one-on-one time with someone who can help me get past this phase. I… I came out to them—twice, now in the last month—and they weren’t too happy.”

Dean took in this new information with an appreciative nod. “So you’re gay?”

“Bi, actually,” he clarified, “but that’s not what I came out to them with. I’m asexual.”

"You mean like pH?"

"No, that's abiotic,” he laughed. “Asexual, meaning I feel no sexual attraction whatsoever."

“So let me get this straight, your parents are mad because you're _not_ having sex?"

"When you put it that way it sounds kind of stupid.” His voice cracked on the last word.

"Cas, listen to me,” he said, facing the boy with a determined expression, "there's nothing wrong with you, you got that? Your folks don't know a good thing when they see it."

Cas blushed profusely and it almost took the attention away from his black eye—almost. "Thank you, Dean,” he countered with a put-on smile and a small sniffle. Their shoulders brushed and it took a second of silent consideration before the former Blue Eyes took the initiative to inch forward until his head rested on Dean’s shoulder.

Moments passed and Dean found himself more at peace than he’s ever been in.  "Hey, Cas?"

Cas’s reply was muffled against his graphic t-shirt, "Yes, Dean?"

He would scratch the back of his neck if he could. His face was burning. "When you said you, uh, you don't feel any sexual attraction… does that include kissing?"

The other boy lifted his head, facing him, and Dean would have laughed at his _Google_ -worthy explanation had he not been so anxious: "Not necessarily, sex entails physical contact of the genitalia; kissing is more sensual. I find it quite... enjoyable."

"Cool,” he replied abstractedly, “because I'm going to kiss you now."

Cas’s lips met his and for the first time since he was dragged into therapy by the skin of his teeth, Dean felt something. He felt alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Maya Angelou’s poem, “Caged Bird”:
> 
> But a bird that stalks/down his narrow cage/can seldom see through/his bars of rage/his wings are clipped and/his feet are tied/so he opens his throat to sing.


End file.
